


Gift

by sciencefictioness



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Except Baptiste Isn't Trash Of Course, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Talon Baptiste, Talon Trash Party
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-15 23:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18679081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencefictioness/pseuds/sciencefictioness
Summary: Baptiste picks him up off the ground as carefully as he can, trying to ignore the way he ragdolls.  Deadweight instead of resistance.Realization hits him slow.  It isn’t his fault.He’s so very different now.It’s sense memory before true recognition— not the sight of him but the scent.  The little whimpery sounds he makes like it hurts to move, hurts to breathe. The way his hand fists in Baptiste’s scarf, fingers lithe, even made of steel.





	Gift

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a small thing. Don't look at me. Baptiste is a good boy, but mind the tags anyway.

Baptiste picks him up off the ground as carefully as he can, trying to ignore the way he ragdolls.  Deadweight instead of resistance. 

 

Realization hits him slow.  It isn’t his fault.

 

He’s so very different now.

 

It’s sense memory before true recognition— not the sight of him but the scent.  The little whimpery sounds he makes like it hurts to move, hurts to breathe. The way his hand fists in Baptiste’s scarf, fingers lithe, even made of steel.  

 

“I’m hit,” he says, and Baptiste fires a shell at the ground next to them.  An automatic reaction, unthinking, and Baptiste feels him go loose and relaxed as they’re both sprayed with the bright golden glow of biotics.

 

He’s lighter than he should be, mostly limp in Baptiste’s arms; his mask is damaged, cutting into his cheek. Baptiste feels around blindly until he finds the release on the back, and presses it— he’s never seen this particular kind of armor, but close enough.  It isn’t hard to manage. The metal falls away in pieces to reveal his face, blood trickling down one side. 

 

His eyes are lidded with exhaustion, drugged, and it’s the worst kind of nostalgia.  

 

Especially since he’s the one responsible this time.

 

Baptiste was ready for a lot of things, but nothing could have prepared him for this; Genji Shimada leaning into him again, drowsy and half destroyed.

 

“Thank you,” he says, slurring through the rush of the biotics.  It’s easy to shrug off the narcotic effect of the nanotech if someone’s injuries are minor, but Genji’s bleeding into his exoskin, prosthetics sparking and teeth pink with gore.

 

Beautiful like always.  It still makes Baptiste’s chest hurt to look at him.

 

“Hey there, darling,” he says.  Instantly, like it hasn’t been years since they’ve seen each other.

 

Like he isn’t in pieces now, shuriken falling like scrap metal from his shattered arm, wires trailing out of one calf.

 

Something is burning, somewhere.  Baptiste can smell the smoke even if he can’t see the flames, or feel the heat.  He knew joining Overwatch would throw him directly into the firing line, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly.

 

A scant handful of hours at the Watchpoint, and Baptiste could tell their resources were cobbled together and stretched thin.  Not enough people, not enough gear, not enough intel. He’s okay with that; it’s how things have always been when he has his gun pointed in the right direction.

 

It’s how he knows he’s where he needs to be.

 

They’d barely gotten him squared away when there was a frantic request for backup over their comms—  _ this was a set-up, Talon is here!  Lúcio is hit and we’re pinned down.  We need evac and another medic! _

 

There are no other medics close enough, and it’s all Baptiste needed to hear.  Running into a fight comes easy, and it isn’t hard to get a handle on things on the ground with the element of surprise.

 

Everyone else is already on the transport now, but they’re short an agent.  

 

_ He’s down on the other side of the warehouse, I couldn’t get to him,  _ and Baptiste didn’t ask questions.

 

Just hit the ground running, and ran straight into Genji.

 

Genji who finally blinks away some of the haze and furrows his brows at Baptiste, tilting his head further to the side.

 

_ “Baptiste?”   _ Genji asks, incredulous.

 

“Little surprised to see you too, kitten.  Let’s get you back to the dropship, okay?” Genji looks comically shocked, confusion written all over his face.  Baptiste doesn’t really blame him, but he also doesn’t have time to explain, not with Talon reinforcements headed their way.  Genji’s still bleeding, and there’s yelling on the comms. He aims his weapon at the ground again, giving Genji an apologetic half-smile; he’d rather do almost anything else, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.  “Sorry about this.”

 

Baptiste fires.  The biotics splash over them both, and the effect is much more pronounced this time.  Genji blinks once, twice, and then his eyes stay closed and he sags even further against Baptiste.  Makes a noise in the back of his throat that sounds like a whine, and then falls silent.

 

Baptiste holsters his launcher, and tucks Genji into his chest, and goes.

 

Back at the transport and up in the air, there is more to be done— dos Santos’ gear is damaged, and it looks like he and most of his team got caught at the edge of a blast of some kind.  Baptiste straps Genji onto a gurney and looks him over. He’s not familiar enough with Genji’s prosthetics to remove the damaged parts right now, and even if he could, it feels a bit invasive.  He’d have to take off his armor, take off his exoskin, and Genji seems mostly stable for the moment. His bleeding has stopped, and his breathing is even. Baptiste pulls back his eyelid, and there are no urgent warnings lit up in his iris.

 

His hair is green again, like it was the first time Baptiste met him.  

 

Like it wasn’t the second, or the third, or the fourth.

 

He only just stops himself from reaching out to touch.

 

An omnic hovers closer, metallic orbs circling him in erratic patterns, one side of his body charred but otherwise unharmed.

 

“I can take care of Genji while you tend to the others, if you like.”

 

Baptiste doesn’t, but he can’t think of any polite way to refuse, and there are other agents who need him.

 

He leaves Genji with the omnic, and gets to work.

 

Everyone is squared away long before they get back to the Watchpoint, which is a double edged sword.  Baptiste is glad there are no critical injuries, but it gives him too much time to think.

 

Too much time to watch Genji from across the transport, and pretend he isn’t staring.

 

Too much time to remember things he’d rather forget.  There are a lot of them; Genji isn’t one, but he’s tangled up in ugly places Baptiste wishes he’d never been.  Things he wishes he’d never done.

 

Things he wishes he had.

 

It’s been years and years, but they’ve been longer for Genji, and at least some of that is his fault.

 

Baptiste watches Genji, and doesn’t look away.

 

-

 

Baptiste hated working in Japan.

 

Talon ops with the Shimada clan were messy at best, and bloodbaths at worst.  At least when he was with Cuerva everything was professional— an objective to accomplish, a target to eliminate, a location to secure.  

 

Yakuza didn’t operate like mercenaries, and they didn’t mind getting their hands dirty, even when it wasn’t strictly necessary.

 

Didn’t mind getting Baptiste’s hands dirty.  Baptiste, or Rivers, or anyone else unlucky enough to be assigned to Olivera’s team.

 

Now the job was done, as shoddy and amateur as it had been.  These weren’t the Shimada clan’s best— officially they had no ties with Talon, and not all the clan elders were aware of their involvement, so they took what they could get.

 

What they could get was often a group of vicious assassins who didn’t bat an eye at cutting their way through the underbelly of a city, uncaring of who got in their way.

 

But money was money, and if he didn’t do it someone else would.  Baptiste did his job, and he did his job well; no civilian casualties, no excessive exposure.  Everyone on his team would have been dead without him, and most of the yakuza, too. 

 

He wondered, not for the first time, if he should have bothered keeping them alive.

 

If the world would be a better place with all of them gone, Baptiste included.

 

Back at the safehouse the mood was celebratory.  Olivera was already drunk when they arrived, uniform rumpled and eyes shining.  Baptiste was ready to send his debrief over to HQ and tuck in for the night, but Olivera’s gaze settled on him, and he lifted his glass.

 

“AUGUSTIN,” he shouted, and then every eye in the room was on him all at once.  Baptiste’s expression went hard, face serious, brows drawn. “The man of the hour!  I hear you saved Malko’s life, and Ravi too!” A round of cheers went up, someone close by patting him on the back hard enough to have him rocking under the force of it.  Olivera crossed the room, closing the distance between them and leaning in close. “You did good work tonight, Augustin. I know you don’t relish working for me, and I appreciate your dedication.  Go with Hiro, he has something for you. Go, go!”

 

Olivera shoved Baptiste gently towards one of the Shimada clan elders, who bowed briefly at Baptiste before heading down a nearby hallway.  He wasn’t sure where they were going, or why, but it wouldn’t be wise to refuse any sort of gift from either Olivera or the Shimada clan. Baptiste followed him all the way to the end of the hall, to a doorway flanked by masked clan guards.  Eyes forward, hands behind their back, staring straight ahead like Baptiste and Hiro weren’t even there. Hiro bowed again, speaking low.

 

“A gift from the Shimada clan, presented as a sign of good faith.  Your superior has already indulged, but everything has been readied for you anew.  All that we ask is that you leave no permanent marks or scarring. If he is not to your tastes we will bear you no ill will, but please let us know, so that others on your squad might enjoy our hospitality in your stead.  Mr. Rivers in particular has expressed an interest, but we wanted to bestow our gratitude to you, first and foremost.”

 

Hiro opened the door, inclining his head to indicate that Baptiste should enter.  It was more ingrained politeness than actual intent that guided his steps as he crept further into the dimness of the room. 

 

“Should he become… uncooperative, there are more sedatives on the nightstand, along with any other supplies you might require.  The Shimada clan thanks you for your service, Mr. Augustin.”

 

The door clicked shut behind him with a troubling sort of finality, but Baptiste barely noticed.  There was a western style bed along one wall, as well as some futons opposite it, dark wood flooring and lamps turned down low.

 

In the center of the room there was a man on his knees, dressed in a dark silk robe that had fallen off one shoulder.  His hair was vivid green, hands loose in his lap; palms up, fingers curling inward.

 

It would look as though he was obediently awaiting Baptiste’s arrival, except for the mass of bruises and bitemarks spread out over his throat, and the black eye starting to take shape on the left side of his face.  The way his head lolled forward, like it was too heavy for him to hold up. 

 

The way his lashes fluttered when Baptiste took a step forward, drugged and drowsy.

 

Baptiste swallowed around the urge to be sick, disgust welling up and threatening to boil over.

 

Was this the kind of reward Olivera thought he’d enjoy?  The kind of man he thought Baptiste was?

 

Not just a mercenary, but a monster.  

 

Baptiste was already fumbling through his gear for a biotic field.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Baptiste said, kneeling in front of him and reaching out towards his face with his free hand.  The man slapped his arm away, the momentum from the movement forcing him to catch himself on his palms as he fell forward.  He hissed something in slurred Japanese, and Baptiste wasn’t fluent, but he knew it wasn’t anything nice. He spit on the ground at Baptiste’s feet.  Baptiste didn’t fault him for it.

 

He deserved worse, right then.

 

There was a soft, rhythmic rapping at the door, followed by Hiro’s voice.

 

“Is Genji to your liking, or should I fetch Mr. Rivers?”

 

Baptiste’s lips curled back in a snarl at the thought of Rivers getting anywhere near this guy, drugged out of his mind, still bleeding from Olivera’s teeth.  He was glad no one was there to see him because there was no schooling himself to blankness right then, no pretending he was impassive.

 

“Tell Mr. Rivers to fuck off.  Tell Olivera to send someone for me when we’re ready to roll out in the morning.  Don’t bother me again.”

 

“As you wish, Mr. Augustin.  We are glad to be of service.”

 

He sounded pleased with himself, like Baptiste wanting to fuck some stoned, beat to shit sex slave was a personal accomplishment on his part.  

 

Baptiste pressed his knuckles against his mouth for a minute, and swallowed again, watching the man— watching  _ Genji  _ glare at him from underneath his lashes.  

 

There were no windows in the room.  The only way out was through a warehouse full of yakuza assassins and Talon mercenaries, and even if it hadn’t been, Baptiste wasn’t that familiar with Japan.  Didn’t speak the language well, didn’t know the lay of the land.

 

Didn’t know how to get out of the building with this guy in one piece, let alone get either of them to safety.  He popped the tab off the biotic field in his hand, and held it up between them.

 

“Gonna fix up that shoulder of yours, but it’s gonna make you sleepier.  You want to lay down first?”

 

Genji sneered.

 

“Want me to crawl into bed for you?”  He spit again, this time directly in Baptiste’s face.  “Fuck. You.” Genji laughed, dark and manic. “If you didn’t want a fight, then you picked the wrong brother.”

 

Baptiste didn’t know what that meant.  He wiped the mess off his face with his scarf, something vicious starting to roil in his chest.  Holding himself up must have been taking a toll, because after a few moments Genji sagged, falling over sideways until he was laying on the floor.  Struggling to keep his eyes open.

 

Struggling to keep watching Baptiste, like he was some kind of predator waiting to strike.  Baptiste held his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you.  I’m not going to do anything to you.  I’m going to use this biotic field to heal those bites on you, but you’re already almost knocked out, and you won’t be able to stay conscious long.  I can help you off the floor now, or I can do it after you pass out. It’s up to you.”

 

Genji’s breathing was labored with the effort it took him to stay awake.  He pulled at his robe with clumsy fingers.

 

“Don’t you fucking  _ touch me.” _

 

There was a tattoo visible where his robe wouldn’t quite come together, green ink spreading out over his ribs.  His nails were painted black, chipped at the tips, rough like they’d been broken. He was wearing eyeliner, and it was smudged, the makeup blending with his bruises.  Scratch marks on his biceps. Blood trickling from his lip. 

 

A hundred little details etched into Baptiste’s memory.

 

Things that would come to mean more, later, than they did in the moment.

 

Things that would hurt more, as the years went by.

 

Baptiste activated the biotic field with a press of his thumb.  There was a loud click, and then the two of them were lit up in warm shades of gold.  Genji’s eyes went wide with some mixture of panic and fury, then fell slowly shut, tension dripping out of his body little by little.  Baptiste watched his breathing even out.

 

Watched the bruises and bites on his skin disappear, the swelling in his cheek going down, the darkness around his eyes vanishing to leave only the smoky residue of his eyeliner.  He hadn’t noticed the marks on Genji’s wrists until they started fading, fingerprints bruises in the shape of someone’s hands.

 

Olivera’s hands.

 

Baptiste clenched his jaw, and let the biotics work for a while.  

 

When he was sure they’d done all they could Baptiste stood up and grabbed a blanket off the pile of futons in the corner, tossing it over Genji before carefully picking him up.  He was heavier than he looked— muscled. Strong.

 

Baptiste laid him in the bed and pulled the sheets up over him.  He needed to take off his armor— he wasn’t about to undress and climb in next to Genji, but no one was going to believe he’d spent the night fucking him if they came in and found him still geared up.  As he was unfastening clasps and dropping his kit in a pile piece by piece, he happened to glance at the nightstand. There were condoms. Individual packets of lubricant. Wet wipes.

 

Three little injection pens, like the kind people used for epinephrine when they had an allergic reaction.

 

Like the kind they used at the hospital to subdue aggressive patients.

 

Baptiste looked at Genji, mouth open as he slept, fingers curled into the sheets by his face.  Dead to the world.

 

Vulnerable.  

 

Fragile in a way he’d never be if he was awake, all snarling and teeth and muttered profanities.

 

Baptiste emptied the sedatives into the trash, and finished taking off his armor and boots, laying down on top of the blankets a few feet away from Genji’s sleeping form.  He turned on his side to block the view of anyone coming in the door, eyes lingering on Genji. His hair fell in his eyes, shadows heavy underneath them like he hadn’t slept in a while.  There was a scar on his bottom lip, barely noticeable in the dim light. Baptiste wondered who he was, where he’d come from. 

 

Where he’d go tomorrow, when they took him away.  

 

It was going to be a very long night.

 

Baptiste couldn’t stop watching.

 

-

 

The safehouse slowly came to life about eight hours later, around the time the sun should have been rising.  Loud footsteps up and down the hall, the noisy cadence of soldiers. There was a knock at the door, followed by Hiro’s voice, all polite deference and carefully practiced apology.

 

“Forgive me, Mr. Augustin, but Commander Olivera would like me to inform you that you’ll be departing shortly.  Your transport will be arriving in half an hour.”

 

Baptiste had not slept.  He ran a palm over his face, and sat up in bed, rubbing at the back of his neck.

 

“All right,” he called back, and that seemed to be enough to satisfy Hiro, because Baptiste listened to him retreat down the hall.

 

When he looked over his shoulder he was met with dark eyes watching him warily, lidded but alert.  The blankets had slid down in the night, leaving Genji’s chest exposed. The delicate lines of his tattoo.

 

The scars on his throat, like someone had tried and failed to slit it.

 

There were a lot of things he felt like he should say, but none of it would do either of them any good, and the words were all stuck in his mouth anyway.  Genji reached up, fingers pressing against the places where Olivera had sunk in his teeth, but finding no soreness or wounds. Genji frowned, pressing harder, brows furrowed in confusion.

 

“You gave me biotics?”  Baptiste nodded, and Genji’s mouth twisted in a ghost of a smile.  “Olivera won’t like that,” he said, and Baptiste glared at the door.

 

“Fuck Olivera, and fuck what he likes.”  Baptiste looked back at Genji, mentally doing inventory on his supplies.  Plenty of biotics, but he was low on ammunition, and out of grenades entirely.  It would be hard— it would be impossible, probably, but he could still try. “I don’t know how far we’d get, but if you know your way around, we might be able to make it.  Get you out of here. Take you someplace safe.”

 

Genji’s face did something complicated, an unfathomable expression settling in his eyes; disbelief.  Grief.

 

Resignation.

 

“I wish you could,” he said, pulling the blankets up higher to hide in them, just his eyes peeking out.  “I cannot leave. Things are… complicated.”

 

Baptiste thought of the Coalition.  Thought of Talon. Blood on his hands.

 

Genji in bed with him, bruised and drowsy and far away.

 

“They always are,” Baptiste agreed, and started strapping on his gear.

 

When he reached for the doorknob to head to the transport, Genji called out.

 

“What’s your name?”  Genji asked, sitting up in bed, robes pulled closed around his chest.

 

“Augustin.  Baptiste Augustin.”

 

“Baptiste,” Genji said, like it tasted strange in his mouth.  Baptiste didn’t blame him. It tasted strange in his own, right then.  Like it belonged to someone else. “How did you end up in Talon, Baptiste?”

 

There was an accusation hidden in the words— soft and tentative, scathing where it went unspoken.  Baptiste leaned into the sting of it, into the truth.

 

They’d put Genji on his knees, and expected Baptiste to be pleased.

 

Expected him to be  _ grateful. _

 

“It’s a long story,” he replied, the knob turning under his hand, one of his squad mates calling out to him from down the hall.  Genji laid back down in bed, still watching Baptiste from under his lashes.

 

“They always are,” he said.  It hit Baptiste in the chest.

 

It felt like a knife.

 

Baptiste pretended to sleep on the transport, afraid to look Olivera in the eyes.  Afraid of what he’d do. Afraid of what he’d see.

 

Not a monster, but a mirror.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Tell me nice things, or come yell at me on [twitter.](https://twitter.com/scifictioness?lang=en)


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